Bored
by rosewouldknow
Summary: John has come home to find Sherlock in a strange mood-he's that bored, he's actually tidied. Well, to Sherlock's standards anyway. But what else could this boredom lead to?...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. DAMN YOU MOFFAT AND GATISS.**

John kicked the door shut behind him, and shuffled his way through the thin hall, the bags of shopping weighing him down. Suddenly he stopped, and his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was quiet. Too quiet.

He assumed Sherlock had just gone into one of his obscure, pondering silences that lasted for hours, and continued to struggle up the stairs. He contemplated trying to once again convince Sherlock to do some shopping, but he knew it was useless. It was too mundane, too _ordinary _for the great Sherlock Holmes.

Opening the door to the living room, John very nearly dropped all the shopping in surprise, when he saw the extraordinary sight before him.

Sherlock was sat in his very usual Sherlock-position (on the couch, wrapped in his blue gown with his eyes closed) but the rest of the room was, well, very un-Sherlock.

It was _tidy!_

John could only reach one conclusion.

"Has Mrs Hudson finally decided to be our Housekeeper after all?" He mumbled to himself, knowing Sherlock would pay no attention to him. He began to shift the shopping into the kitchen.

"No." Said Sherlock in a deep, distracted voice.

"Oh." John looked confused. "Then, um, how did it get so tidy?"

"I tidied it." He exhaled and opened his eyes, before turning his haze towards a rather baffled looking John Watson.

"You? Tidied? Isn't that a bit um, boring for you?" He asked, amused. "Not that I'm complaining." He quickly said, looking incredulously at the transformation. It wasn't exactly spotless-the walls were obscured by piles and piles of books, and strange specimens were still visible in various places, but you could move around, and there was actually space to put down a mug of coffee by the armchair.

Sherlock sighed and stood up, wrapping his gown defensively round himself. "I was bored. You weren't replying to me when I spoke-"

"I wasn't here-"

"-and I had nothing else to do."

"Oh, well, good. It's a big improvement from shooting the wall." He smiled. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson would approve."

"Yes." Sherlock glanced longingly over to a set of drawers which obviously contained the gun that he usually used to pass the time on days like this.

"Don't you dare get that thing out Sherlock!" John warned, taking the shopping into the kitchen and heaving it onto the table. He wasn't as fit as he used to be, he thought.

He pulled out a bottle of milk and braced himself for whatever horror could be in the fridge-he had encountered all sorts in this kitchen, from heads to eyeballs-and sure enough, he was not to be disappointed.

Sat in a small jar was what looked worryingly like a pickled toe. A human toe. He sighed.

"Another experiment?" John asked, turning to see Sherlock leant nonchalantly against the door frame, spinning the gun around his finger absent-mindedly. He had taken off his dressing gown and stood with his shirt not fully buttoned, revealing some of his chest.

"Yes. Well, it was, then it went wrong." He sighed, disappointed.

"Then why is it still in the fridge?" He asked, exasperated by Sherlock's ridiculous habit.

"I was thinking of doing something to annoy Anderson. I've not come up with a plan yet, I'm biding my time." He grinned maliciously to himself, still staring at the gun in his hand.

"Right." John nodded. He rolled his eyes, but secretly laughed. He actually looked forward to seeing the outcome of this particular experiment, so he pretended to ignore it.

John continued to put the shopping in to fridge, but stopped when he felt Sherlock's gaze on his back.

"Sherlock?" He asked.

"Yes?"

"Um, what do you want?" He asked, uneasy as he turned to see Sherlock's intense gaze staring down at him. The sun was quickly setting and the dim light from the window was blocked by his tall silhouette.

"I'm still bored." He said, his expression barely wavering from his terrifying glare.

"Well, um, I've got a lot of shopping to put away..." John joked half-heartedly, bravely staring back at Sherlock, but admittedly not quite as scarily as he did.

Sherlock stepped closer to John, and John could see something in his eyes that he had only seen once before.

Usually, Sherlock Holmes blocked himself off from human feelings. He showed no sign of anything other than determination and deep thinking. But one time, just one time, John saw something that, after getting to know Sherlock, surprised him more than any of the ridiculous things like heads in fridges, or reading someone's life in the way they walked or spoke.

He saw emotion.

The only time he had ever seen emotion was during one particular case. In this case, Sherlock had met a woman. The Woman. Irene Adler. John had seen some spark in his eyes when they were together. Love? And after he had lost her he saw something else. Regret? Grief?

Whatever these emotions were, Sherlock had quickly smothered them and hidden them away. And John was pretty sure he was the only one who had truly seen them.

The strange thing was, John thought, the way that Sherlock's show of emotion had affected _him_. He knew how unfeeling Sherlock was. He had told John already-he was married to his work. But When Sherlock briefly showed his feelings for Irene, John had felt something. Annoyance? Betrayal? _Jealousy?_

No, don't be ridiculous. Why would John be jealous? Of Irene Adler? How stupid! He was constantly having to tell everyone that they weren't a couple. He couldn't be doubting it himself, could he?

Definitely no doubts. It's not likes he found Sherlock _attractive. Sherlock's hair...Sherlock's eyes...Sherlock's lips... Kissing Sherlock's lips..._

No, John! No, no, no! Don't be stupid. You're straight anyway, since when have you been interested in men? Think straight thoughts.

_But Sherlock..._

No.

During the time in which John had got a little...lost, in his own imagination, he hadn't realised that Sherlock was slowly but surely edging his way towards John. John saw in his eyes a whole lot of confusion-he looked like he was carefully calculating how a murderer had killed a particular victim, or what a complete stranger had eaten for dinner the night before. Whatever he was thinking about, he was thinking about it very carefully.

And there was some caution there too-like the caution he had before saying or doing something in a situation which could result in the death of an innocent person if the wrong move was made.

"John." He said, his eyes focusing in on his.

"Sherlock." John coughed awkwardly.

Sherlock slowly leaned down towards him and whispered, "I'm really, really bored." Before closing the space between them and-

"Oh, am I interrupting, boys?" Came the flustered voice of Mrs Hudson from the doorway. She blushed a little at her badly timed entrance, but Sherlock span round and reassured her.

"Not at all, Mrs Hudson, John was just putting away the shopping." He said, before quickly swanning past her and throwing himself onto the couch with an audible _thud._

"My, It's looking very tidy in here..." She muttered to herself, before tottering out of the kitchen and down the stairs.

John shook his head and quickly resumed putting the shopping away, taking deep breaths. Did that really just happen?

Did Sherlock Holmes nearly kiss John Watson?

**Right, this is my first shot at any Sherlock writing, nevermind Johnlock. It's be great to hear some reviews! Should I continue or...?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the reviews so far! I have put in a bit in Sherlock's POV, as was suggested. I didn't mean to actually get so involved in the case that they are in, but I ended up doing that, I don't know if it's any good but ...yeah. I promise the next chapter will have more Johnlock, and less Anderson hating (let's face it, we hate Anderson though, don't we?)**

**All belong to Godtiss and the Moff King, which makes me sad. GUYS, WE NEED SOME JOHNLOCK IN THE NEXT SERIES, OKAY?**

The flat, over the past week, had returned to it's usual state. The neatly piled books had returned to their normal positions (scattered over every possible surface), and the odd, sometimes disgusting experiments had been littered randomly across the flat, jars of dead worms and Petri-dishes holding strange types of fungi had been thrown inconveniently around the room.

John returned to the living room, and carefully manoeuvered his way around all of the obstacles blocking him, trying not to spill his coffee.

He sat onto the armchair-having checked it first. (He'd had a few occasions where he had sat on some very unpleasant experiments or gooey evidence from a case. Upon scolding Sherlock, he received a simple reply of, "You should be more _observant._" before he gave up and accepted that, around Sherlock Holmes, he had no choice but to do just that.) He unfolded the newspaper in his hand and scanned it, quietly muttering to himself about things to do with the government.

…

I sat watching John. And he was oblivious to my scrutiny, immersed in the mundane newspaper stories full of political scandals and pointless, uninteresting stories about sportsmen and celebrities and all these other _normal _things that people were interested in. I could tell what sort of crime, or misbehaviour of any sort they had committed without reading the article, but by looking at their picture.

It was all so _obvious_! The way they walked, the way they held themselves, their facial expressions, their clothing...It was like a diagram, mapped out inside my head. How could other people not see it? And it was simple enough to work out why, how or _if_ they had done something. You just had to put the pieces together. It was like a child's puzzle-simple!

But John was not simple.

Not today, anyway. I had watched, unnoticed by him, as he walked over to the couch and sat down. It was easy enough to spot all of the tell-tale signs.

He had limped a little on his way, but had not complained about it (as was his usual way to go about things-he wasn't one to moan). He hadn't offered me any tea-not that I wanted any, and not that I was offended he didn't, it's just that usually, John would futilely offer me a cup of tea. But not today. He hadn't complained about the mess (I simply didn't care about the tidiness of the flat. What did tidiness achieve anyway, it's not like I lost things, I remember exactly where everything is) which was unusual. His complaints are usually half-hearted anyway, as he knows very well that I really don't care for tidying up.

All the signs were there. But I sat there, watching him carefully, feeling completely baffled. Because I could not put the pieces together. They were there scattered around my brain. A jigsaw with thousands of little pieces, and I didn't even know where to start! These subtle differences in John's behaviour...they were small, but must have been something to stimulate this change...

"I wish you'd get bored again. Last time was a good bored." John said.

_Oh._

"The tidying, I mean, the tidying!" He quickly said, blushing a little as he saw the expression on my face. But he didn't fool me.

Stupid, stupid! How could I have been so stupid?

That night last week...I don't know what had come over me. I had just seen John standing there, looking so...welcoming. Though I would never admit it, I need John. I need him to help me solve cases, I need him to bounce my ideas off, I need him to be that brilliant _conductor of light _ that he is. But I need him more than that I sometimes think.

No, don't be ridiculous! I am Sherlock Holmes, I _always _work alone. Oh, well, that part of my plan had been ruined already. I never work alone any more. I always have John. But what about when I'm not working? Do I need John then?...

I watched as he frowned into the newspaper, complaining quietly to himself about the economy or something unimportant. I remembered our...encounter, last week. I had got closer and closer to him...I literally couldn't control myself. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to back off, but I couldn't. It was those eyes. Pulling me in, like they had wrapped a rope around my waist, and were whispering at me, telling me what to do next...

But John's reaction had made it perfect. His breathing had got quicker, and his pupils dilated...did he feel the same way?

What was I _thinking? _I'm Sherlock Holmes! I do not let myself get involved with these... these...feelings!

A buzzing in my pocket, immediately followed by a ringing sound pulled me out of my reverie. Ah, Lestrade was calling. Brilliant.

"Hello?" I said, sounding purposely uninterested, but inside feeling like a child on Christmas morning.

"We've found another one of those bodies, Sherlock. Mutilated in the same way. We're out of our depth here." The Detective Inspector admitted. I could almost picture the embarrassment on his face.

"I knew it was only a matter of time. Text me the details, I'm on my way." I announced, ending the call and shoving the phone back in my pocket.

John was already stood up waiting. I grabbed my coat and scarf and instructed him. "John, go and get a spade and the pickled finger in the fridge. I have a feeling Anderson will be on forensics." I grinned evilly, before rushing out of the door and onto the street, shouting for a taxi.

…

John had long since forgotten his embarrassing slip up, and followed Sherlock out of the flat and onto the street, deftly hiding the pickled finger from the vision of the taxi driver; carrying a spade around was weird enough.

"Where are we going?" John asked, looking out of the window.

"There's been a fifth corpse found-killed and then mutilated in a peculiar way. As usual, the police have no idea, and have turned to us." Sherlock looked slightly confused at the end of his sentence. When did it become _us?_

"Right. And, the spade and the finger?" John enquired.

"Well, the spade is an idea I've had, but the finger is nothing to do with the case." He told him. "Just here, please." He shouted to the taxi driver.

Walking onto the crime scene, Sherlock glanced over to where Anderson was stood. His bag had been thrown carelessly onto the floor, and Sherlock saw his opportunity, glee lighting up his expression.

"John, go and distract him."

"You are such a child!" John complained, but laughed. "How do I do that?"

"I don't know, he's talking to Donovan, make sure you keep up the conversation." Sherlock whispered, before dashing off to Anderson's bag.

John shook his head, but went to talk to them.

"So, what've we got then?" He asked, nodding towards the body lying in the centre of the room.

"Fifth one found over a fortnight." Donovan informed him. "Exact same injuries, cuts making a weird pattern over the body."

"Right, should we um, have a look then?" John asked, guiding them over to the body.

"Don't you contaminate anything!" Anderson's nasal voice warned.

Ignoring him, John knelt down and inspected the injuries, before looking at the face in confusion. A lot of blood had come from the mouth and nose, but the cuts were not deep enough to have ruptured anything on the inside of the body.

"These cuts weren't the cause of death. There's blood coming from the mouth, which suggests that there's something inside that's bleeding, but the cuts aren't deep enough to have caused it." John stated, standing up and carefully looking at the corpse.

"Then what was the cause of death?" Asked Donovan.

"John, MOVE!"

John turned to see Sherlock hurtling towards him with the spade raised above his head. He dodged out of the way just in time, before Sherlock pulled the spade down onto the body with a grunt, and a sickening _thwack _echoed around the room.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Anderson shouted, looking alarmed and angry.

"Shut up, Anderson." He said, staring intently at the body. After a few seconds, a strange fluttering noise came from inside the body, and soon after, lots of very small bugs began scattering out of the ears, nose and mouth of the body. "Haha! Just as I thought!"

"Sherlock, what just happened?" John asked, staring incredulously.

"You just said the cuts weren't deep enough to have caused internal bleeding right?" Sherlock said, turning to look at John. Lestrade stood to the side of him, listening intently to the explanation, his arms folded.

"Yeah, they barely cut into the skin at all."

"So, something must have been inside them to cause bleeding. Now, Lestrade told me that they have all been seen in one particular restaurant over the past few days, so we assume something has been put in the food right?" Sherlock said, spinning around the body and crouching beside it.

"Right."

"However! It's not poison, because the test results showed none of them had ingested anything poisonous, so we have to assume that there's something else." He peered into the ear of the dead body.

"So...you assumed it was carnivorous bugs?" John asked, incredulous.

"It was an option." Sherlock informed him. He stood up and put his hands in his pockets, and began speaking at a ridiculously fast pace. "They're ants from India, rarely found, but if you know where to find them, they can easily be used in a murder. They can eat things very quickly, and would make for a rather uncomfortable death. If they're swallowed they can get into any part of your body and quite easily hide. That's why nothing was found in any of the autopsies-they were hidden out of view. However, big vibrations are all that's needed to shift them out of the body. So, hit the body with a spade and there you go!"

Everyone else stood in silence, staring open mouthed at him. John shook his head. "Brilliant." He said.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said.

He turned to Lestrade and smiled smugly. "You're looking for someone working in that restaurant who has a tan. The ants only last a few weeks, so the person smuggling them must have come back from India recently." He glanced towards Anderson's bag and innocently stated, "Time for lunch, I think."

Lestrade nodded. "Right, everyone eat then we'll go and investigate this bloody restaurant." He shook his head.

Meanwhile, a disgusted cry came from the other side of the room.

"What the bloody-Sherlock!" Anderson's voice echoed across the room. Sherlock and John turned to see him staring down in disgust at his lunch which was now all over the floor. On top of his sandwiches was a solitary finger.

John stifled a laugh at the hilarious picture. Even Lestrade looked like he was trying not to chuckle.

"You're bloody ridiculous you are, absolute psychopath-"

"Sociopath!" Sherlock corrected him. "I wanted to give you a little treat, Anderson, but I didn't have any chocolate fingers, so I had to make do with a real one, hope that's okay!" Sherlock grinned mischievously, before giving John a nudge and grabbing his hand, dragging him behind him as they legged it away from a fuming Anderson.

They both giggled as they got out onto the street and Sherlock stuck his hand out to a passing taxi. It drove past them and he huffed in annoyance.

All too suddenly, John realised they were stood by the side of the road, waiting for a taxi, and Sherlock had not let go of John's hand. John and Sherlock were stood hand-in-hand.

The odd part of it was, John hadn't even questioned it. When Sherlock held out his hand, John had automatically grabbed it and ran with him. It felt natural, he didn't even need to think about it. It felt _right._

It seemed Sherlock had come to a similar realisation, as he turned to John and shuffled a little closer to him.

"It's raining, John." Sherlock said, his gaze once again focusing on John's enticing eyes.

"Good deduction." John said sarcastically, despite the fact that he hadn't noticed until the consulting detective had pointed it out to him.

John stared up at the tall man in front of him. He looked very, very confused, and possibly even scared. His dark curls were slowly becoming soaked in the increasingly heavy rain and raindrops lightly splashed on his nose, on his cheeks, on his lips...

John felt himself moving towards him, and he had no way to stop it. Their hands fell apart, only for Sherlock's to snake around and rest on his lower back. John felt his pulse increase dramatically at this unusual contact, and his breathing became uneven as they got closer. Unaware of doing so, John's hand reached up and rested on Sherlock's chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his coat under his hand.

They were so close. John could _smell _him. A strange smell, that was bizarrely attractive. It was the smell of something after an experiment, perhaps an explosion, mixed with something sweet John couldn't quite work out. Whatever it was, John thought it smelt good. He wondered what it would taste like...

And he didn't have to wonder anymore, as Sherlock's lips collided his.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes _did _just kiss John Watson.

**Please, please, please, review, I love hearing your opinions. Constructive critisism is welcome too-I worry about writing Johnlock, it's difficult to keep them in character!**

**Hope you're enjoying it :-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Godtiss and Moffat own. **

**Just a bit of fluff for you now really guys, yay, happy smiles.**

* * *

The rain continued to pour mercilessly from the sky, pummelling angrily onto the exposed skin of our cheeks and hands. I felt a shiver run down my spine which was completely unrelated to the cold. John broke away from me just in time, gasping for air, as Lestrade and his team appeared on the street, protecting themselves from the rain with comfortable looking umbrella's and sensibly chosen waterproof coats.

"You two are taking your time." Lestrade said. I noticed John blush a furious red colour as I turned to call out to a passing taxi. To my relief, this one stopped and let us in. John gave everyone an awkward wave, before joining me in the cab, his face radiating an alarming scarlet colour that looked like it could have given off heat.

"221 Baker Street." I instructed the driver, before turning to inspect John. He hadn't put on a coat this morning-probably due to the fact that the sky had originally been a clear blue, before turning into a dull grey about an hour after we left-and his knitted jumper which, I had to admit, was adorable, was absolutely soaked. I frowned.

"What?" He asked, pursing his lips and hiding a shiver. The fact that he was questioning me suggested that he was unaware of the boundaries of our relationship, and the fact that he hadn't come any closer showed he was unsure whether our recent..._activities _ had a lasting meaning or affect. I frowned more as I considered this. I really wanted him to come closer.

"You're soaked." I stated.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." He muttered, wrapping his arms around himself and staring out of the window.

"Come here." I told him. It was more of an order than an invitation, and he took it that way. He shuffled across the seat so he was sat next to me. My coat had survived reasonably well, the outside of it was wet but the inside had stayed relatively dry and warm. I draped it round us both and he pulled it round himself. He looked at me cautiously before, obviously seeing something he viewed as acceptance, he tentatively leant his head down and rested it on my shoulder.

My brain went into a state of panic-I was so unaccustomed to being this close to someone, but it just felt right. Everything was perfect. It was like he was made to fit me. He was the perfect height for me to rest my head on top of his. His sandy brown hair made a soft pillow under my cheek, and I inhaled, taking in the fabulous smell of shampoo and tea and newspapers and all the other very _John _smells that floated towards me.

Soon I heard a gentle snore, and his breathing became perfectly even. I couldn't see his expression, but I imagined it being one similar to the ones I so very often stared at when he dozed of on the couch. He looked so innocent. Like a child who had not seen war, horrible injuries, violent deaths...

"Sherlock..." He muttered, before unconsciously snuggling closer to me. I wrapped an arm around him and squeezed lightly, before rubbing my hand up and down his forearm in an attempt to make him warmer.

…

When John woke up, he was in his bedroom. He was tangled in his covers, his arms tucking them tightly under his chin, his head resting comfortably on the warm pillows. He suddenly realised he had no recollection of actually getting to his bedroom. He peeked out of the window to see it was dark-he had been asleep for a few hours at least.

How had he reached his bedroom? Had Sherlock carried him? That seemed the only reasonable explanation, but why would..._oh. _It all suddenly came flooding back to him, the recent events. The...kiss between him and Sherlock. Surely that hadn't happened? Surely that was just some dream, created by John's _very _over active imagination...

The door creaked open, and John snapped his eyes shut, breathing slowly and carefully, as the tall, curly haired silhouette drifted into the room, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

"John?" He whispered softly. He didn't respond, but lay as still as possible, waiting to see what happened next. He vaguely thought of the time when their roles had been reversed and he'd had to drag Sherlock's unconscious body up the stairs and put _him _to bed.

Quiet footsteps approached him, and he stopped when they were at the edge of the bed. He hesitated for a moment, then gently lowered himself down and lay on his side. He leant their foreheads together, and John felt his warm breath dance temptingly on his lips.

John narrowly avoided jumping out of his skin when he felt soft fingertips trail lightly from his hairline to his chin, and he suddenly considered how new this must be to Sherlock. Innocently flickering open his eyes, he pretended he had only just awoken.

The moonlight swimming through the window lit up his features, showing the immense shadows beneath his cheekbones and illuminating his ghostly eyes, making them look like they were made of water.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" He asked, his hand still cradling the side of John's face. John felt trapped like a deer in headlights under his hypnotic gaze.

"It's okay, I was dreaming of you anyway." John murmured, feeling his cheeks grow hot as he realised how very cheesy and out of character that sounded.

Sherlock smirked. "What a cliché." He chuckled in his low voice, inspecting his hand as he gently ran it through John's soft, sandy blonde hair.

John yawned and closed his eyes. "How long have I been asleep?" He asked tiredly.

"About six hours. But don't worry, I was here the whole time." Sherlock reassured him, smiling.

"I always worry when you're around." John teased. Sherlock wrapped an arm protectively around him, holding him there as if to say that he was his and nobody else's. John willingly sunk into his embrace, the warmth spreading around his body like a smouldering fire.

"Go to sleep." Sherlock whispered, tenderly planting a soft kiss on his cheek. John automatically shifted so his head fitted perfectly beneath his chin, and he soon drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

* * *

**Right, I'm not sure whether I'm going to continue or not, I don't really know what to do with it next. If you would like me to continue, I would love it if you guys could suggest some prompts or ideas. As always, reviews are very much appreciated. :-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, so I decided to continue. I couldn't resist really! This is mega mega mega fluffy, with extra cheese on top. Please do warn me if they start to slip out of character, I shall try and reign them back in a little.**

**Thank you to xxBurningxx and for the prompts for this chapter. I'd love some more! :-)**

**Godtiss and Moff King own all, sad times.**

* * *

John was woken up by bright sunlight squeezing through the gap in the curtains and lighting up a small strip of the room. He momentarily watched the little particles of dust floating delicately above his head, then stretched his arms slowly, feeling his muscles stretch and joints crack.

Noticing disappointedly that Sherlock hadn't stayed, he moved as if to get out of bed, but part of the sheets were pinned down by something heavy, and his attention was drawn to a small clattering sound at the foot of his bed.

His heart warmed as he observed the tray holding a plate of beans on toast, orange juice and his own phone. He checked his phone and saw he had one text-from Sherlock.

_If you need me, I'll be in my mind palace._

_-SH_

He shook his head and delightedly tucked into the surprisingly tasty breakfast-in-bed, eating it a little too quickly then swiftly swallowing the fresh orange juice in a few gulps. After wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his hands to get rid of lingering orange juice, he quickly ran a hand through his sleep-flattened hair and carefully carried the tray out of his room.

He passed Sherlock, who was sat on the couch with his eyes closed, occasionally moving his hand as if to push something invisible past him. John tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to disturb him as he did, moving to the sink to do some washing up. He then left to have a long shower, which gave him the opportunity to clear his head in privacy and consider the eventful day that had passed.

Half an hour later he crept into the living room, feeling much fresher and clear minded, his hair dried and wearing one of his favourite woolly jumpers. He would never reveal this fact to anyone, but the main reason he wore so many jumpers was because the thickness gave him a feeling of protection. Spending time in the army, being aimed at and shot had given him a continued feeling of exposure, so he usually put on quite a few layers, even if the weather was warm.

However, as he sat in the comfort of his armchair, just the sight of Sherlock sat in deep concentration in a bizarre world of his own made him feel so much safer. Made the layers wrapped around him seem that little bit less necessary.

"John?" Sherlock said suddenly, without opening his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"I think there's some things we need to discuss." He pointed out, opening his eyes and exhaling deeply.

John new what that meant. _Feelings._ _Ew. _This was the worst part, in John's opinion, of relationships. John didn't mind the feelings themselves-he loved the way the fuzzy little things filled up his stomach and made his insides feel warm and happy. But talking about them-no. It was awful. He was not a man of many words. He just didn't have that knack that some people possess, that ability to word things perfectly. He always ended up making himself sound like an idiot, or offending the person he was trying to declare his love for.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, yes I-I guess there is." His gaze flitted around the room, focusing on everything but Sherlock's face. He wished he could tell him all the things that he felt, but if he even attempted he would probably just end up spewing out word vomit.

Sherlock surveyed John unblinkingly, then moved closer to him, kneeling in front of him. The height difference meant that with John on the low armchair and him knelt down, their heads were almost at the same level. John found himself unintentionally leaning towards Sherlock, his arm moving up and his fingers weaving into his soft, thick curls. Their foreheads pressed together and their lips were centimetres away from each other.

"Sherlock I...don't make me put it into words, I-I can't explain it-" He muttered, willing for him not to force him to say it.

"Me neither," He admitted, closing the space between them and stealing a quick kiss. "John, I've never felt like this before. Ever."

"What about Irene Adler?" John asked, holding back for a second.

"John," He sighed as John flinched from his kiss waiting for his explanation. "I've told you, I've always divorced myself from emotion. Because of this, that ridiculous infatuation that somehow slipped past my immense emotional barricades felt more more overwhelming and terrifying than anything I'd experienced. I thought, at the time, that it was love. It turned out I was wrong." He whispered, staring into John's eyes. John stood up, pulling Sherlock with him, and wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him in for another longer, more meaningful kiss.

"What do you mean? Wrong?" John breathed. He felt it slightly unfair for him to pressure Sherlock to talk about his feelings, but now he had started hearing it wanted to hear all of it, like the first bite of a delicious meal. He wanted to know everything about how Sherlock's head worked.

"John..." Sherlock began, but was then distracted as John moved towards him once again and locked their lips together.

They broke apart and John blushed a little. "Sorry, go on." He said, running his fingers through his hair soothingly.

"You, John, confirmed that was wrong. You make me feel so much more..." He paused, thinking. "I don't know. But it's not like Irene. It's a million times nicer. It's not sharp, or painful, or overwhelming. With you it's like...it's natural, it's right." He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around John's waist. "It's like an ebbing tide, not a tsunami, it's like a tickling butterfly, not a stinging wasp. With you it's not an infatuation...it's...it's-"

BAM! The door swung open and in stormed Lestrade, looking tired and desperate. "Sherlock, we need your help again we've-" his sentence abruptly ended and he just stared open mouthed, going a little red. John and Sherlock, realising that the way their limbs were entwined was definitely _not _appropriate when they had company, jumped apart like they had both just received an electric shock.

"Um, is this a bad time?" Lestrade asked, his eyes flickering between John and Sherlock who had both, yes, even Sherlock, turned a very bright red colour.

"Not at all." Sherlock jumped in quickly, his quick wit once again dragging them quickly from, or possibly digging them deeper into the rather awkward hole they had become trapped in. "John and I were just _experimenting._" he chuckled, much to John's embarrassment. He felt his cheeks burn like they were on fire.

"Well, um," Lestrade coughed, "that restaurant, we've been doing some investigating and it seems the culprit has moved on somewhere else. We need you to help us track him down, we can't find any leads." He spoke slowly, like he was still trying to absorb what he had just stumbled into.

"Of course. We'll be with you in ten." Sherlock said, already heading towards his coat and scarf.

Lestrade nodded, then made a swift exit.

"Well. Let's hope Anderson doesn't get word of this." John joked, putting up his own coat. He immediately regretted saying it when Sherlock's face fell a little.

"Why would it matter?" He asked.

"It wouldn't, I just meant...well, we'd probably get some stick for it, wouldn't we?" He told him.

Sherlock shrugged. "Anderson's an idiot anyway."

"True." John agreed.

After donning their coats and racing down the stairs, Sherlock opened the door halfway and stopped. He stood motionless for a second, hesitating.

"It was love by the way." He announced abruptly.

"What was?" John asked, bewildered.

Sherlock turned to him and lowered his voice. "The end of my sentence."

He span back round and dashed out onto the street, holding his hand out to a passing taxi.

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**So yes, there's you fluff with extra cheese! Please review, I love hearing feedback and as I said, prompts are very much appreciated!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Right, so just when you thought you couldn't hate Anderson any more...I've written another reason to hate him!**

**Not so much fluff in this one, but...a few surprises. I'm sort of beginning to form a storyline now, rather than just drabbles and things, so yay! I hope you enjoy it!**

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The taxi pulled to a stop outside Bart's, and Sherlock and John hurried inside, Sherlock mumbling to himself incomprehensibly. Walking into the mortuary, John smiled at Molly warmly, feeling sorry for her as Sherlock swanned past her like she was invisible.

Lestrade was already stood waiting and smiled uncomfortably as the pair walked into the room. "I've got all the bodies here. We've left them untouched so just do what the hell you want." He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Bags under his bloodshot eyes showed how much stress this case was putting him under. "There's been more people taken, in the same way these lot were. If we don't work this out soon...well, it'll be us lying in those bags, let's put it that way."

"I'm going to need a cloth and a bucket of water." Sherlock instructed, beginning to dash around the bodies. Lestrade mopily set off to retrieve the said equipment, but John, in a sudden wave of empathy (he knew well what it was like to have next to little sleep and have to rush around trying to solve cases that seemed impossible) volunteered to get them.

Molly, who had been stood in the corner observing them with her clipboard held protectively in front of her, timidly edged closer to Sherlock, watching him closely as he unzipped one of the bags and inspected the body inside.

"I-I was wondering if-" she floundered nervously, biting her lip. "Are you free, tonight? Or-or any night this week?" She clutched her clipboard a little closer to her, waiting expectantly.

Sherlock didn't reply-he was preoccupied with the very interesting corpses he had the delight of being able to do whatever he needed with them.

"Are-Sherlock? I-" She flailed, but was interrupted by a hand on the shoulder. It was Lestrade. He nodded to the other side of the room and guided her gently away, so Sherlock couldn't hear their whispers.

"Molly, I think you should give up now." He warned her, looking at her sympathetically.

"What I-why-why does everyone think I-"

"Have you never noticed him and John?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah, but I-I didn't think much of it,. I mean, people always say things about them don't they? And nothings every happened between them so I figured-"

"Something has happened." Lestrade informed her. Her face fell.

"What do you mean?" She asked, glancing over at Sherlock who was paying no attention to their hushed conversation.

"Before, when I went to get them to come here, I-well, lets just say, when I walked in they jumped away from each other like they suddenly realised they had infectious diseases." He muttered, feeling sorry for Molly as her previous determination melted into disappointment.

"Oh, Right. That was, ha, stupid of me, I should have realised." She laughed awkwardly, smiling at Lestrade. "Thank you for, um, telling me." She muttered, turning her head in embarassment.

He returned her smile and left her stood there, approaching Sherlock expectantly.

"Any ideas?" He asked urgently.

"Five." He boasted, spinning round to greet John as he heaved the large bucket of water into the room, dropping it ungraciously onto the floor and splashing them with water. He handed Sherlock the cloth, and he took it from him, his hand lingering on John's little too long. Lestrade noticed.

"Look, guys, I'm fine with you two and everything, it's great, but please, could we focus on the case?" He asked, nodding his head towards the dead body by their side.

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, but did as he was told, keen to continue and grab an opportunity to show off.

He quickly proceeded to utilise the things John had brought him, hastily wiping away the blood on the torsos of the first of the murder victims.

"Sherlock, what're you doing?" John asked, intrigued.

He narrowed his eyes and muttered, "Almost there..." before scrubbing off a little more blood, and grinning proudly. "Yes, as I thought." He exclaimed.

"Mutilated dead bodies Sherlock..." John reminded him. "We may not be in public but please, try and act a little less like you're a kid in a theme park."

Sherlock smirked at this, continuing onto the next body with the water and cloth.

"Are you gonna explain it to us then?" Lestrade asked, watching in confusion and worry as Sherlock expression started to become one of concern. Sherlock hardly ever looked concerned. He hardly ever displayed any emotion, in fact-his face was usually as blank and unreadable as a piece of paper.

"The murderer has been leaving a message." He told them, glancing over at John worriedly.

"A message? How? John asked, moving closer to Sherlock and scrutinizing his actions carefully, trying to work out what he was talking about.

"Look," He grabbed John and yanked he towards the body. "Those cuts on the bodies? They're letters. You have to clean away the blood, but when you look closely they're _letters_. The first one was _J_," he motioned to the body behind them, the first victim. "And this one is _I._" He ran round to the next body quickly, looking panicked.

"What do you think it's spelling out?" John asked, fully aware of how on edge Sherlock was.

"Think about it." Sherlock said, rapidly wiping away blood from the third victim.

John's eyebrows furrowed as he considered it. "_J...I..._Wait, you don't think-"

"That's exactly what I think." Sherlock nodded, confirming his suspicions as, with a final wipe, he cleared the blood from the body he was stood over-the third victim.

John walked to his side and felt his insides churn uncomfortably. "_M._" He gulped, "Jim. He's back then?" He stared glumly as, for the first time, the smell of the blood mixing with the fear rising inside him made him feel dizzy.

"Jim? What, Moriarty? That maniac with the bombs?" Lestrade looked like someone had just slapped him.

"So it would appear." Sherlock muttered, wiping away the blood on the fourth body. "Another _M._" He muttered, swiftly moving round to the last body.

"Why's he doing this?" Lestrade questioned, "What's the point?"

"You know what he's like." Sherlock said, turning round with a sharp intake of breath. "It's a face."

"What?" Lestrade asked, confused. John moved forward to look at the last victim.

"He drew a smiley face on a dead man's stomach?" John said, appalled.

"What, that lunatic killed someone, just so he could carve a smiley face into their skin?" Lestrade replied, looking disgusted.

"Well, no, he didn't, someone else did. But he was behind it. He wants our attention..." He muttered, glancing, once again, at John.

John felt uneasy under his anxious glances. "What, Sherlock?"

"John, do you remember the last time we encountered him?" He stepped towards John, his trouble eyes baring down on him.

"Of course I do-he wired me up to some bombs, I'd struggle to forget." John joked weakly.

"And you remember what he said? What he told me he was going to do?" Sherlock uttered.

"He said...he was going to burn the heart out of you." John remembered, raising an eyebrow. "Bit over dramatic if you ask me."

Sherlock sighed and moved forward, lifting his hands to either side of John's fan and leaning his head down so their foreheads touched. "John, he's knows everything about me." He uttered, trying to hold back a storm of panic. He scrunched his eyes together. "He probably knows about you."

"Oh." John said quietly, displaying no sign of fear.

They remained there for a few seconds, while Lestrade turned away and awkwardly fiddled with his phone, not wanting to interrupt. Sherlock pulled John into a long embrace, wrapping his arms protectively around him.

Unfortunately, this was the moment when Anderson had decided to walk in.

He just stared, not quite sure what to say next. Sherlock broke the silence, ignoring Anderson and holding John in front of him by the arms.

"From now on, do not leave my side, do not go anywhere alone and always stay where I can see you. Do you understand?" Sherlock urged.

"I'm not a kid, Sherlock, I can look after myself." He said, slightly annoyed at Sherlock's orders. He knew he only wanted to protect him, but he hated being ordered around-he'd had enough of that in the army.

"I know, I'm sorry, but please...for me?" He asked imploringly.

"Right okay, whatever." John sighed, as Sherlock's expression turned to one of relief.

"Thank you." He muttered, kissing John's forehead. He turned to speak to Lestrade. "I can't find any other information that will help us catch up with him. We'll just have to wait, he'll send us something else soon."

"We can't just wait for him to go out and murder some poor sods then carve messages into their stomachs!" He pointed out, irked at Sherlock's lack of care.

"The next message won't be sent in the same way. He'll be bored of this now." He told him. He grabbed John's hand and pulled him to the door. Anderson looked at them, feeling an opportunity to wind Sherlock up.

"What, so you two are-"

"Yes, Anderson, we're a couple. Problem?" He asked, glaring down at Anderson who flinched away a little, but laughed.

"You two are gay?" He sniggered, looking from John to Sherlock and back again. "Me and Donovan always said you were a freak."

"If you have a problem with this, I could always bring it up with your bosses at Scotland yard- I'm sure they'd love to hear about your...discrimination." Sherlock threatened darkly. Anderson gulped but returned his glare.

"Seriously though John, I always thought there must be something wrong with you-you actually chose to share a flat with him." John narrowed his eyes angrily, and even Lestrade looked like he was getting fed up of hearing Anderson's whining voice. "But you decide you want to _be _with this freak-" Anderson's teasing was interrupted by a strong punch in the face, followed by a sickening _crack _that sounded like a broken nose.

Sherlock made no attempt to restrain John, but chuckled gleefully at his reaction.

"Okay, okay guys, break it up!" Lestrade rushed over, pulling back John, who was now preparing for a full attack. Anderson clutched at his oversized nose and backed away, pointing accusingly at John.

"You're a maniac! Did you see what he just did! I'm gonna report you for this!" He shouted, waggling his finger at John.

"Shut up, Anderson!" Lestrade bellowed. He relinquished John and they all stood glaring at Anderson, getting their breath back.

"But he just punched me!" Anderson squawked, looking at Lestrade incredulously. "You can't seriously expect me to-"

"Anderson, If you don't shut up now, I will report _you._" He warned him. Sherlock held back an amused grin.

"I think it's about time we leave." He said, grabbing John's hand and walking towards the door. Before leaving, he shot Lestrade a grateful smile, which he returned with a nod.

Outside in the corridor, Sherlock stopped them and looked quickly up and down John, checking he was okay, before they both fell into fits of giggles. "Well done." Sherlock congratulated him on his excellent punch.

"I try my best." John replied, composing himself and smiling at Sherlock's delighted expression.

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**So yes, Lestrade is fabulous and Anderson is an absolute prune! Please review, and suggestions are appreciated!**

**Thank you to those who have reviewed so far :-)**


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm so sorry for the wait, I've had a ridiculous week. I'm afraid updates may be a bit random within the next, ooooo, few weeks or so, I don't really know. I have an audition and a guitar grading I have to rehearse for, so yes, apologies in advance! **

**Right, I definitely know where I'm going with this now, so yay for that!**

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The apartment was silent, the only sound was the occasional movement of Mrs Hudson downstairs reverberating through the walls and breaking the peaceful quietness. The evening sun threw a warm orange glow into the room, the reflections from an experiment on the windowsill making pretty patterns on the floor. A burning smell, similar to incense, hung unobtrusively in the air, and the remains of dinner-home made soup-lay on the cluttered coffee table in front of the couch.

Sherlock was sprawled across the couch, his feet hanging off the end, one arm dangling limply down the side. His head was rested comfortably on John's lap. John sat with his head leant back, absently running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, closing his eyes and enjoying the silence which he so rarely had the pleasure of being in.

They had long since abandoned attempts at decoding the clues left behind on the bodies-after all, they had already worked out it was Moriarty who'd done it. John was tired, and Sherlock was out of ideas (much to his dismay-he hated when he could deduce nothing else from the information he'd been given; it made him feel _normal_) so they had decided to let it lie.

After a few hours of watching Doctor Who-John had the box set; he was quite the Whovian-eating soup, and being generally _domestic_, Sherlock had tired of it, and wordlessly switched of the television and shifted so his head was on John's lap. And they had been like this for almost an hour, neither of them speaking but just enjoying each other's company.

"John?" Sherlock broke the silence, his voice a whisper. "Are you awake?"

"Yes." John replied, smiling. He was so much like a child-this was the longest he'd seen Sherlock go without moving or speaking-not including when he was in his 'mind palace'.

"I'm bored." He complained, grabbing his hand and examining it, holding it close to his eyes and muttering inaudibly.

John pulled his hand away and stretched his arms out, yawning. "Same."

Sherlock stood up quickly and grabbed his dressing gown, wrapping it around himself and then walking over the coffee table. "I need a new case John. Something to keep me interested, since this one makes no sense." He frowned at the map on the table that showed the places the victims had been taken from.

The people who had been taken had no connections-Sherlock had tried to think of anything at all that could have linked them. There was _nothing._

"Maybe it's not a square?" John said, joining Sherlock in the inspection of the map. The five points on the map showed the shape of a square, the fifth point marking the spot directly in the middle of the square. This was the only thing they had spotted, but they didn't know what it could suggest, even if it was purposely done in that shape.

Sherlock moved towards John and glared at the map over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. Suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket and he grabbed it, looking at the text Lestrade had just sent him.

"John, you are brilliant!" He declared, spinning him round and placing a kiss on John's surprised lips.

"Oh, thanks!" He chuckled. "How?"

"You're right, it's not a square." He roughly clutched the map and span around frantically, as if trying to find the right light, holding up in different places. His lips moved quickly as he mumbled at an unintelligible speed.

"What is it then?" John asked, watching Sherlock swan round the room.

"Aha! John, it's an arrow!" He shouted, making John jump a little. He showed him how Lestrade's text had told him the places the next victims had found, and where they went on the map. John nodded, and observed as Sherlock placed marks on the said places, then matched up the marks to make an arrow.

"And so, it's pointing to, um..." John looked at it carefully, his eyebrows furrowing. "Manchester, by the looks of it." His finger followed the trail.

"Yes, looks like it." Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Lestrade's here." Sherlock nodded towards the sound of a car door shutting outside. This was confirmed as Lestrade burst through the door, panting heavily, a look of worry etched on his tired features.

"Sherlock-"

"It's an arrow, and it's pointing to Manchester. But you don't need to worry because he won't be killing anyone else, for a while at least, because that was meant as another message for me. He seems to be sending me a lot of messages, and I expect to get another one very-" His rambling was interrupted by a buzzing from his phone, as if it was agreeing to what he'd said.

He avidly read the message, and John could almost see his brain whirring inside his head, trying to decipher the meaning behind it.

"What does it say?" The other men asked in unison, watching him closely.

"You need music to dance." Sherlock said, emotionless. He threw the phone to Lestrade who niftily caught it then scrutinised the message himself.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" He said, looking between the two men. John shrugged his shoulders and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "We can try and track the number." Lestrade suggested.

"There's no point. It won't work." Sherlock told him, holding his hand out for his phone.

"I know, that's why I said _try._" Lestrade replied, sighing. He handed the phone back to Sherlock, and tucked his hands in his pockets. "Right I'm off."

And with that, the Detective Inspector left their flat, leaving them on their own.

Without thinking, they automatically pulled each other into an embrace, standing wrapped in each other's arms, feeling safe for the few minutes that they stood motionless. The sun quickly set behind Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sorry, am I interrupting?" Mrs Hudson's embarrassed voice came from the door. They turned to look at the woman, who had kindly brought up a bag of shopping for them. John quickly disentangled himself from Sherlock's solid grip and went to help her, thanking her profusely as he took the heavy shopping into his hands.

He carried the shopping into the messy kitchen, and Mrs Hudson shuffled over to Sherlock, who had slumped back onto the couch, his expression thoughtful.

"I could tell that you two would, well end up-" she pointed to John, then him and then back again in an attempt to get her point across, smiling happily.

"I could tell you could tell, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock replied, giving her a small smile.

"Well, make sure you look after him, don't let him get swept away in one of your mad cases." She warned him, as she began absently tidying the things on the coffee table. Sherlock didn't reply to her, but gulped nervously and his smile slipped away instantly. John walked into the room and saw his expression, and swiftly moved to his side and held his hand, even as Sherlock tried to hide his panic from John.

"What's wrong?" He asked. Mrs Hudson smiled like a proud mother.

"I'll leave you two alone." She shuffled out, beaming smugly.

"Nothing." Sherlock snapped out of his reverie. He looked at John's worried face, and automatically lifted his hand and held it to his cheek, wanting him to be happy again.

"I love you." John said, surprising himself, but intently staring back at Sherlock.

"I love you." Sherlock repeated, unable to move, locked in his gaze.

They both moved towards each other and their mouths collided, all the things they were unable to say out loud said wordlessly through their kiss.

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**Please review and, as always, suggestions are very much appreciated!**


	7. Chapter 7

**I think John has really been affected by the war, more than he cares to let on-and yes, I know we learn that he misses the action, but I think he's secretly seen some really awful things-and I thought I'd use this as something to go off on this chapter. It's a little bit off the plot and irrelevant, but I wanted to try and show John in a different light, since he always seems to be the one that holds up everyone else and links them all together.**

**I hope you enjoy it! :-)**

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Sherlock only just about resisted grumbling complaints to himself as he trundled along the quiet streets, trying to find a shop that was open. Twelve o'clock had seemed the appropriate time to John for him to finally ask for some pain killers-only to realise there were none in the flat. So Sherlock had offered to go to the shops and retrieve some (an act very against his own nature), as John's shoulder was really beginning to cause him grief.

He dashed through the drizzle, turning his collar up against the wind, desperately in search of a shop that was open. He finally came across one with the lights still blaring from the inside, which looked like it could do the trick. He checked his phone.

_Hurry up, please._

Quickly running inside, he immediately began to look around in search for the required medicine. He knew that John must be getting desperate. He hardly ever complained. Sherlock felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of how much pain he must be in-he didn't like to moan, he would usually just get on with things, and keep fighting until something came along and made things better. Sherlock also smiled a little at how much he cared about how he felt-John was the only person who he really cared about, who he'd ever cared about.

He was wonderful. He made everything more interesting, made everything feel like there was a point to it. He didn't know what he would do without John. He loved to see him happy-it was like Sherlock's happiness depended on John's happiness. And to see John sad made Sherlock feel like everything was wrong. If John was sad, nothing was right. If John was happy, everything was perfect.

And that was why he should stop daydreaming and get on with what he was here to do! He snapped back into action, realising he had been stood there for at least five minutes.

_Sherlock!_

Another pained text that felt like a punch in the stomach made his rush to find the pain killers even more desperate. He searched the shop a few times, but it soon became apparent that they did not sell what he needed. Hastily leaving the shop, he pulled out his phone again and did his best to reassure John.

_I'm being as quick as I can._

Carrying on through the rain, the next text back to him made him a bit angry-there was no need to be ungrateful.

_Not quick enough._

He had been wondering for at least fifteen minutes, trying to find somewhere that was open. If John had just admitted he was in pain, rather than trying to put up with it until it got to the point where it was unbearable, they wouldn't be in this predicament. He was trying his best!

Shoving the phone into his pocket, annoyed, he spotted a pharmacy across the street that was open. He bounded across the street, stepping in the unavoidably large puddle by the pavement and sending a splash of water up his leg. He shivered and gritted his teeth. The lengths he went to for John! He furiously opened the door to the pharmacy and stormed in, slamming the door shut and alarming the woman who was leant, eyelids drooping, on the counter.

"Oh, hello sir. Can I help you?" She asked, quickly wiping away the bits of hair that had fallen from her sloppy pony tail and onto her tired face.

"I need pain killers." He grumbled.

"Anything in particular?" The woman asked, holding back a yawn.

"Strong ones." He told her, slowly becoming impatient.

"Any particular kind?" She enquired, not noticing Sherlock's demanding glare.

"I don't care, as long as it works!" He blurted out, his fury increased as his phone buzzed, declaring yet another text had been sent to him from John. Looking at the phone, he felt a little guilty as he realised he'd been another half an hour.

_If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put U and I together._

Sherlock looked at the text in confusion. Since when did John send cheesy chat-up lines? Another similar text followed, only a few seconds after the first.

_Do you have a map? Because I keep getting lost in your eyes!_

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at his feeble attempt to wind him up.

"Just give me those." Sherlock demanded impatiently, rudely pointing towards one of the packs the woman behind the counter had retrieved, and was about to start displaying like one of the girls showing off a car as a prize on a TV show.

Paying for the pain killers and dashing outside, he held out a hand to a passing taxi, who pulled up. He happily clambered inside, out of the cold rain.

_Have you got a plaster? Because I hurt my knee falling for youuu!_

Sherlock really didn't understand why John was doing this-it was very unlike him, he didn't do the whole lovey-dovey thing. He glanced anxiously at the balding head of the driver, pleased to see it was looking straight ahead, so he couldn't see the slight blush on his face. The rain suddenly became very heavy and Sherlock was glad he had managed to escape from it before he became completely drenched.

_Come home soon Sherlockk. You must be tried from runnin gthrough my mind all day._

The typing was becoming a little sloppy. Sherlock sighed. The pain must be getting worse. He wanted to make John feel better, so he decided to join in. He looked at his phone apprehensively, before making a contribution.

_I'll be home soon. It's a good job you're a doctor-I'm going to need CPR, because you've taken my breath away._

He sent the text, smiling to himself, pleased at his ability to do something relatively normal for once. The reply made it apparent that John approved too.

_Be craeful in that rain tho-sugar melts in waterrrrrrrr._

Sherlock chuckled to himself at how bad these chat up lines were getting, and frowned at the bad spelling and typing on the last one.

The taxi pulled up outside 221B, and Sherlock jumped out as quickly as possible, holding the box of pain killers ready in his hand. He rushed up the stairs, eager to relieve John of the pain he was in, but the sight he was greeted with was not one he had expected nor wanted to see.

One empty bottle of vodka, from the drinks left over from Christmas, was lying on the the floor, another half empty one was clutched in John's hand. His shaking fingers were clenched tightly around the neck, and he pulled it up to his lips, looking confused when big hands pulled his arms away from his mouth and snatched the bottle from his grip.

"Hey, what-give it back!" He whined, waving weakly towards Sherlock, who dashed into the kitchen and poured it down the sink.

"No." Sherlock said calmly.

"Please!" John complained. "It hurts!" He rubbed his shoulder, sticking out his bottom lip.

"I went to get you pain killers." Sherlock grumbled, taking the box and shoving it on a shelf in the top of the kitchen that John wouldn't be able to reach-he felt a little harsh for using his height against him in such a patronising way, but it was for his own good.

"Well give them to me!" He complained.

Sherlock laughed.

"Sherlock, give me the pain killers. I'm fine seriously, look-" He stood up and stumbled to the side, before Sherlock shot towards his and held him up. "I'm fine."

"How much have you _had?_" Sherlock asked, scanning the room to try to find traces of more alcohol.

"Not much, seriously, just gimme them." He slurred, leaning into Sherlock's chest as he struggled to stay upright. Sherlock sighed sadly. He had been away for an hour at most. It must have been bad for him to get in this state.

"You know I won't give you them. You're a Doctor, you know what will happen." Sherlock chastised him.

John nodded and blinked, looking up at Sherlock and gripping onto the collar of his coat, struggling to enunciate properly. "I started to remember everything-" He gulped. "Everything what happened, Sherlock." His eyes welled up and tears spilt over.

Sherlock felt like someone had ripped a hole through his chest as he watched John break down and weep uncontrollably onto his shoulder. He hugged him tightly and kissed the top of his head. "Come on, let's get you to bed. Everything's okay now, come on."

Gently, Sherlock guided him towards his own room-John's was upstairs and it seemed like too much trouble. Once inside, John collapsed, fully clothed, onto the bed and an onslaught of tears ripped through him. Sherlock sat on the bed with him, allowing John to snuggle up, staining Sherlock's shirt with tears, until he eventually cried himself into a nightmare-stricken sleep, that he drifted in and out of throughout the rest of the night. Sherlock didn't sleep-he just waited for John, and made sure he was there to hold him every time he woke in a panic. He stroked his hair, squeezed his hand, gently kissed his forehead and whispered reassuring words to him.

Because if John was sad, nothing was right.

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**Please review! Reviews are lovely!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Right, okay, there actually is a plot unfolding now. Yay!**

**Soooooo my friend Han said i should mention her, SO HEY, YOU'RE MENTIONED HAN.**

**Enjoy!**

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John entered the flat-carrying the desperately needed milk, jam, bread and newspaper in a plastic bag-and was greeted by the sound of a solo violin playing a familiar tune. He smiled at Sherlock's figure, which was stood gazing out of the window whilst animatedly playing the instrument in his hands.

John walked into the kitchen, quietly humming along to the tune, putting the shopping into the fridge, sighing with the relief that it was one of those rare occasions in which there was no bizarre human parts in jars or other strange things from his flat mate's unusual experiments.

The music stopped abruptly and John frowned at the unfinished tune.

"You know this song?" Sherlock said accusingly, pointing the bow in his hand at John.

"Um, yes?" John replied, resisting the urge to hold up his hands in defence. He frowned. "Is that bad?"

"No, John. It's very, very good, look." he grabbed the sheets from the music stand and rushed over to John, rustling the paper in front of his face.

"Er, lovely." John said. He knew nothing about music, so all the lines, dots and squiggles just looked like, well, lines dots and squiggles to him.

"But _look _John, what's it missing?" Sherlock urged him, waving the papers frantically at him.

"I'm not a musician, I don't know!" He told him, pushing the paper away.

"You don't have to be a musician John, look!" He tapped the top of the sheet with his bow. "There's no title!" He sighed angrily.

"Oh!" John said in comprehension. "That's simple. Play it again."

Sherlock did as he instructed, and John began to hum along, nodding his head.

"It was posted through our letter box this morning. But there's no name." Sherlock frowned, whipping the bow through the air dramatically, making a _whoosh _noise past John's ear.

"It's _Masquerade._" John informed him, feeling smug that he knew something Sherlock didn't. Sherlock obviously wasn't to pleased about this, as he scowled at John.

"_Masquerade?_" Sherlock repeated, his eyes scanning over the music.

"Yes, it's um..." he blushed a little and cleared his throat. "from _Phantom of the Opera._" He muttered.

"You like musicals?" Sherlock teased, smirking at John's embarrassed face, feeling an opportunity to wind him up.

"Yes." He admitted, going more red under Sherlock's amused gaze.

"Ha. And you say you're not gay!" Sherlock laughed, striding back into the living room and continuing to play the song that they had now worked out to be _masquerade._

John just shook his head and tried to regain control of his flushed cheeks-he seemed to be going red quite a lot at the moment-before shuffling into his armchair and unfolding his paper. Beginning his daily perusal of the day's news, John thought about an interesting point.

"Wait, you said it was posted through the letterbox?" John asked, suddenly remembering what he'd been told.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, his violin abandoned on the cluttered floor, his hands sat under his chin as his brain whirred with deep thought.

The warm afternoon sun glared through the window-it was getting closer to summer and the weather had improved dramatically over the past week. The sounds of pigeons cooing on the street below floated into the room, disturbing the almost perfect quietness.

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Is it another clue then? A message from Moriarty?" He asked.

"Most likely." Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Masquerade...What's the clue there?" John pondered to himself.

They both sat concentrating, the silence consuming the room as they both racked their brains for ideas.

"Maybe it's some thing to do with-" John began hopefully, but was interrupted by a violent shush from Sherlock. He soon began muttering to himself furiously, in that alarming way that John had learnt not to interrupt. It usually meant he was close to finding the answer in his _mind palace. _

"Masquerade!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, jumping up onto his feet.

"Um, yes," John slowly pulled himself to his feet and looked at Sherlock in confusion. "We already established that."

"There's some masquerade ball on tonight, I saw a poster for it, it's in that little community centre a few miles away from here." Sherlock told him.

"Oh yeah." John nodded, vaguely remembering seeing the bright posters plastered around the area. He frowned. "What does that mean then?"

Sherlock grinned at John. "Go and get ready John, I'm taking you to a ball!" He exclaimed delightedly.

* * *

After John had got ready (He had actually just exchanged his jumper for a different one, but he didn't suppose it mattered) Sherlock dragged him out of the flat by the hand and got into a taxi. John knew he was excited by the case and not the thought of going to a ball, but his childish excitement made John smile nonetheless.

Sherlock had sent Lestrade a text-they had no idea what might happen, so it was best if the police were involved. Lestrade was going to come along, and there was a whole squad poised if anything went wrong.

The community centre was decorated with golds and reds and greens, and people who had put varying amounts of effort into their outfits were queuing to get inside.

"Sherlock I think we need tickets." John sighed, nodding his head towards the table by the door.

"John, my brother is practically the government, I have the ability to get us into the most secret bases in all of Britain, and you think I can't get us into a little community dance?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fair enough." John nodded, taking Sherlock's hand and leading them to join the back of the queue.

"What's this about secret bases?" A familiar voice asked. John turned to see DI Lestrade approaching them.

"Hi, Greg." John said, smiling warmly at him. Sherlock didn't say hello, but nodded courteously at him-his actions the other day had not been forgotten by Sherlock. He didn't mean to seem rude, but he was currently looking carefully at all the individual details of their scenery.

There were red balloons hanging from the low roof, and gold ribbons were plastered everywhere. The people in the queue varied from those who had worn jeans and a t-shirt and used pen to scribble on some masks, to those who had gone all the way, with elaborate golden dresses, huge skirts, neck ruffles, big hair and shimmering golden masks.

As they were inside-Sherlock hadn't even needed to do anything, Lestrade had just waved his badge at the people at the door, and they had nervously granted them free access-they were greeted by a crowd full of chattering people, mostly couples. Most of the men looked like the didn't want to be there-like their partner had dragged them along. Particularly the ones who had come dressed in full costume. John pitied them-he hadn't even worn a mask.

Some of the couples stood in the middle and danced awkwardly to the string quartet music playing from the iPod docking station in the corner-this was definitely a low budget evening-while most of the others stood talking in groups around the edges, drinking cheap alcohol in plastic cups.

"Come on, John." Sherlock said, dragging John into the centre of the room. He wrapped an arm around John's waist and clasped his other hand in John's. John stood there, glaring at him in disgust. Sherlock merely grinned back mischievously.

"No way." John shook his head. "Sherlock, I am _not_ dancing!" He stood perfectly still, his face once again going a little red as some people gave them dirty looks for obscuring their dancing paths.

Sherlock's grip tightened and he breathed in his ear. "What if I _make _you?" He whispered in a low voice, chuckling evilly. John's resistance melted at the same time as his insides, and he decided to just go along with it, despite how idiotic he felt. He tried his hardest to imagine it was just him and Sherlock, in their flat.

It turned out that Sherlock was actually quite good at dancing. John didn't find it anywhere near as bad as he imagined-Sherlock was the one who did all the work. He span them round and guided them through the increasingly large crowd of people gathered in the middle.

Greg stood awkwardly at the side, occasionally sipping his drink and glancing over at the couple. John would occasionally look at him apologetically, and mouthed _sorry! _at him as they flew past.

John actually caught himself enjoying it, and he giggled uncharacteristically. The quick waltz changed in tempo, and their frantic spinning changed to a soft, side to side movement.

"You make me feel so small." John complained, grinning up at Sherlock.

"You're not small, John. You're the perfect height for me." Sherlock told him, smiling back at him adoringly. John leant his head on his chest and closed his eyes. He could almost hear his heartbeat. The soft sound of violins filled his ears and he was sure he could fall asleep standing up if he really wanted to. In fact, that sounded like a lovely idea...-

SQUEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK!

John jumped awake and clasped his hands to his ears, the sound of feedback from the speakers squealing loudly across the room. The sound cut out, only to be met with the angry sound of furious guitars, loud, crashing drums and chest-rumbling bass. Most of the people there looked around in confusion, some looked angry at the disturbance, and some looked rather relieved. Grunge music was certainly not what they expected to encounter this evening.

"What the hell is that?" John asked, shielding the side of his mouth in an attempt to be louder, looking around to find the source of the change.

"It's another clue!" Sherlock shouted over the racket. He dragged John over to Lestrade.

"I don't know the song this time!" John yelled.

Lestrade motioned for them to follow him, and they all rushed out of the door.

Stood outside, the men all looked at each other in confusion.

"What the hell does it mean?" Lestrade asked, looking confused.

"It's a message. It's giving us the next clue. We were given a clue to send us here-a song-and now there's another one. But I have no idea what song it is." Sherlock sighed angrily. He tucked his hands in his pocket and tried to listen to the lyrics, hoping it might give him some clue. But they were pretty much unintelligible screams.

"I have no idea either." John admitted. "Not really my scene."

Lestrade smiled. "Well, luckily for you two, I spent most of the early nineties with baggy clothing and long hair." He told them. They both looked at him incredulously. "Oh yes, I loved a bit of punk and grunge."

"What song is it?" Sherlock asked hurriedly, grabbing Lestrade by the arm and shaking him.

"Calm down!" Lestrade said, pulling Sherlock's hand away. "It's Nirvana. _Floyd the barber._" He announced. John thought he saw a flicker of smugness, like the one he had felt himself when he had known something Sherlock didn't.

"Floyd the barber..." Sherlock muttered. He whipped out his phone and his fingers typed at a ridiculous speed. "Ah! About ten minutes from here." He announced, before running off down the road.

John sighed and chased after him.

* * *

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